


Poets at Spark

by Jazzybot4 (SniperinaJumper)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers: Prime
Genre: F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SniperinaJumper/pseuds/Jazzybot4
Summary: Tfa/Prime fusion, set either just pre-war or very new in the Wars mechanics. Megatron pulled from Megatron Rising comic and Megatron from TFP.Lugnut keeps staring. Strika is suspicious. Megatron ships it.
Relationships: Lugnut/Strika
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: Secret Solenoid '19-'20





	Poets at Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RHplus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RHplus/gifts).



> Happy Secret Solenoid! Im posting this from work because life is NUTS right now. And from mobile so forgive any formatting borkage. 
> 
> A gift for RH+, happy new year!

"Do something about Lugnut before he gets himself slagged." Strika growled at Megatron, her tank treads grinding into his back kibble. "It's becoming a distraction, how he stares" and she drove a claw into his plating, only to have him somehow use a thruster and a twist to throw her off. good, the scraplet needed to think creatively in a fight with her. 

"Lugnut is a fierce and dedicated Decepticon." Megatron said, servo catching one of her vents and yanking. "I'll not reprimand him for the understandable past time of staring at you." and he heaved, but miscalculated because Strika locked one of her pedes into his knee joint, bringing him with her in a grapple roll. 

Their sparring sessions had become more regular, when she'd demonstrated that Megatron needed to fight like a soldier, not a gladiator. He couldn't be concerned for the crowd, now. She'd kicked his skidplate across the deep cargo bay turned training room to prove that he'd get himself killed in a fight with a real soldier. He was a clever fighter, and a cunning opponent, but he wasn't anything near her level, as a former General of Cybertrons Grand Armies. 

He'd thanked her after, smirking at her and challenging her again the next cycle. She'd make a Commander of him yet.

"Talk to him about it." Megatron growled, pinned under her bulk in a way that would snap his spinal struts if he wasn't busy tapping out now, her weight lifting off him to let him up for their next round. "He's over-dramatic and single-minded, but he's loyal and clever, in his own way. Unless it starts to impede either of your duties shipboard or battlefield, I'm not going to interfere." 

And here, he smiled at her, that little expression he only ever got when his idealist spark spun up grand ideas. She ran the calculations for punting the bucket right off his head, just for the fact that she knew what he was going to say next. 

"After all, isn't that why we're here? If you truly wish him to stop watching you, then tell him that. You're as much a free mechanism as he is. But Strika, I've found that there's much to be said about having his loyalty. Come to the officers mess tonight for a change, we've got some new shipments in and a victory to celebrate."

He headed for the washracks even as she ground her dentae, watching him go. Perceptive little scrap heap thought he had her all read, but she'd known for a long time that she wasn't the sort to be stared at like Lugnut seemed to be up to. It made her wonder what he was actually up to and how to head off the inevitable fireworks.

_____

Lugnut looked up at Strika, the taller Femme sure in her field and by the gods he'd forsworn, she was beautiful. Unlovely, maybe more for function than form. An old campaigner, with long roads behind her treads and her vivid optics taking in the entirety of the battlefield. Or sometimes like here, the gathered officers club party on the back end, when the ragers had passed out and instead it was the older 'cons sipping high grade and considering their berth before duty shifts in the morning. She had a scowl on her faceplates fit to send the junior officers scampering, but Lugnut was not so cowed. 

"You're staring." she rumbled at him, deep voice the kind of sound one wished to hear in the deep dark, felt as much as heard in the low registers, sonics tuned for distance not pleasure, but pleasurable because of it. A voice meant to *carry*, to bring hope and brief, necessary solace when the lost were well and truly *lost*. 

"You're beautiful." he said frankly, instead of his usual bombastic grandiose declarations. They had their place, and Megatron enjoyed the flattery sometimes. But here, for her? She knew her own frame and plating, knew her harmonics and her servos and her paint were not designed for beautiful. She snorted, a sound like gears grinding in the back of her throat. 

“I am not meant to be beautiful.” she growled, voice low and conversational, full of menace and threat. “You’ve clearly lost your processor to the high grade. I’ll let this slide, Lugnut, but know that if you *keep staring* that I shall take it as a challenge and react accordingly.” 

Lugnut didn’t flinch, instead looked up into her optics, downing the last of his high grade cube and leaning back. She must have taken it as a moment of surrender, because her claws unclenched. 

“The strike of the Forge of Solus Prime, on the Anvil of Primus.” he said instead, and she froze. “Your name. When you unpack the deep glyphs, and look for the poetry in it. Strika, the ring of creation across Cybertron. You are not *forged* to be *beautiful* by any single cybertronian artisan, like they would all bleat about being beautiful.” and here, he stood at last to go, having stunned her in her seat, having said his piece. “But you are *beautiful* to me, because you are without a single equal in this world, or any other.” 

She reached out, one large hand closing claws-in around his forearm. 

“Nobody has ever known that before.” she said, voice low. “Sit, Lugnut, and speak to me of the poetry you’ve found.” 

He smiled shyly at her, the softness of it on his big, scarred face making her pause, reconsider her stance against him. He sat, not at her side, but at her pedes, slowly kneeling before her to settle his large frame comfortably against the couch she sprawled against. 

“In the smelter, we didn’t have names.” he said, up to her. “So I stole one, from a mechanism that crossed the belts. I don’t think he would have minded, being dead as he was.” he said, and her claws found his helm, settling into comfortable places against the divoted metal. “And his name meant “load-bearing connection”, but I rather like how Lord Megatron rewrote it. My name is ‘Holding our momentum on the course of victory’, and I’m very pleased to meet you properly, at last..”

\----------------------------------

Many cycles later, on a strange world not too distant from Cybertron, the Rebellion soon to explode:

"To reforge the frame is simple. We are creatures of malleable metal, our nanostructures subject to our own whims. We are able to program our minds, our frames, to be anything. The spark, that is distinct, and not subject to hammer or anvil. We are creatures of lightning and ground, given will of our own. We are not machines. We are Cybertronian. We are able to love, in a way that the politicians would rather stamp out of us. So today we strike a blow against their callous disregard for the lives they claim to own. Today, I am pleased to announce that we are doing the much harder task of reforging our society. Two of our own have decided to bond in the way of our people, long denied us. General Strika has claimed Commander Lugnut as her Consort, and he has agreed. Long may they stand as example and bulwark, against Functionist propaganda. Decepticons, today we rise up in joy for our comrades, and I extend salute to my very good friends. Long may your union last, until the last star gutters out.”

Megatron stood before the Decepticon horde, cannon raised, and fired a single charge into the sky of this alien world, followed by the charges of Lugnut and Strikas closest friends and allies, each shell bursting into bright colors showering down on the happy pair. 

Lugnut beamed at Strika in his own way, the curling glyph-line across his clavicle strut bearing her ancient, near-forgotten name. Her own plating bore only a single glyph, layered and layered in complexity, his name framing her Decepticon brand, a glaring challenge for all the Functionists to see. 

The cheers lasted long past the setting of this worlds sun, and together they looked out to the place where Cybertron glittered in the sky, a satellite that they would soon reclaim as their own.


End file.
